Hand by hand these bricks were laid,
Brick by brick this manor made,
Children played upon the glade,
Until this place was torn asunder,
Smashed apart by raging thunder,
The God of the People Beyond These Walls,
Had risen up and towered tall,
The children, servants ran away,
But flame and lightning blocked their way,
And thus there trapped by decadence,
The God ignored their penitence,
Clothes, flesh, bones all burnt away,
Scorched brick tower left to decay,
Ages passed and vines consumed,
The ruins of that manor tomb,
Travellers come here treading slowly,
Trying to imagine what transpired,
(The “Official Record”, you see, is undecided)
But they will never know,
They will never know.
They will never know.
They will never know.
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Author Archives: Michael
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They Will Never Know
Posted at 8:10 am , on December 17, 2019
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Stars
Posted at 7:34 am , on December 12, 2019
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The Sound of an Alien Sea
Posted at 12:06 pm , on December 5, 2019
Rumbling, pouring, cascading streams of time,
Roaring, rushing, unseen by eyes of mine,
So do all these crashing dreams align,
With stars and streams and foamy brine,
That roar and crash like waves, unseen,
On beaches distant and serene,
Across the gulf of starry night,
Those streams that roar, cascade, alight. -
Inheritance
Posted at 7:37 am , on November 28, 2019
You inherit something. Something mundane–let’s make it a serving plate with bevelled edges or something–that you keep because you remember from your childhood. For a while it sits in the cupboard: untouched, revered.
But there will come a time when you will look down at your hands, stained red with the blood of the human heart you are preparing for use in a dark ritual (or from slicing a tomato) and you’ll realise you’re using THAT plate.
You will find yourself frozen for a moment in your blasphemy. Red drips from your hands.
But it’s okay: because a plate was meant to be a plate. And even if you stain it, or it falls from the bench and shatters, the world will move on, you will move on and that plate you kept for some reason is still just a plate, whether or not it’s in pieces on the floor or in your cupboard.
In the end, only memories that are real. And in the ending after that, even your memories will fade away.
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Where the Self Lives
Posted at 7:26 am , on November 26, 2019
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meandering wastes recursions three through five
Posted at 4:24 pm , on November 19, 2019
Third recursion:
beyond wastes
writer sets pace
scratching pen
line starts againFourth recursion:
beyond wastes
writer pace
scratching pen
starts againFifth recursion:
wastes
pace
pen
again -
Familiar Place I’ve Never Been
Posted at 9:51 am , on November 14, 2019
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meandering wastes second recursion
Posted at 2:41 pm , on November 12, 2019
beyond meandering wastes
writer sets frenzied pace
scratching words fountain pen
each line ends starts again
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